Fighting Brittany
by mad-cow-mama
Summary: What if Santana made an adult lesbian friend in Season 2?
1. Old School

**Chapter 1: Old School**

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters or anything else from Glee. Non-Glee characters are mine.

Fighting Brittany

I.

The first time I fought Brittany, it lasted about four and a half seconds until she dropped me with a spinning kick to the head. She was pronounced the winner, and I shook her hand.

"Thank you. For letting me fight you," I said with a crinkle at the corner of my eye.

"Um. Are you okay?" she asked.

"Yes. Yes I am," said I.

As we were the only two adult females in our division, we walked together to the award table.

"Shouldn't you be doing, like, Yoga or Tai Chi instead?" she said.

"Ya, that's what my doctor suggested, too," I said. "But they don't have impact. I like impact."

"Yeah, me too. Summers I do motocross. Well, I did until I totaled my bike." She paused for a moment. "Are you really okay?"

"Yeah. The teammate I train with most hasn't dropped me yet, but she gets me in the head all the time. I'll learn to get out of the way eventually. My girlfriend totally doesn't get it, but she's really supportive of my nutty habit. Our kids, too. Let's face it, I'm less likely to yell at them if I've been kicking a bag."

We were given our medals at the award table, then we walked off the fighting floor together. My girlfriend met me at the door and helped get out of my sparring gear. I introduced her.

"I'm Brittany, pleased to meet you," said Brittany.

"Did you see her awesome head shot?" I asked.

"I heard about it. I couldn't watch," said my girl. We laughed.

"Wait," said Brittany to me, "You guys have gray hairs, like how old are you?"

"Fifty. You?"

"Um. Seventeen."

"Your coach sent you to fight adults?" I was horrified. What if I'd been beating up on a minor? Jeez. Oh, yeah. She'd dropped me in less than five seconds and the referee called it.

"Yeah, I came to fight." She shrugged. "I used to do kickboxing, but my coach moved, so I decided to try taekwondo."

"I came to fight, too."

An attractive dark-haired girl strode up.

"Britts, you were amazing. She didn't stand a chance. In fact, she barely had a chance to stand up, did she?"

"Um, Santana? This is her."

"Oh. Hi there. Ooh, you're like, older than my mom."

"Yeah, Sweetie. Kicking myself younger, though." I grinned.

"This is Santana."

I introduced myself and my sweetheart.

My girl smiled and said, "I'll catch up with you when you're ready. The baby's about to fight." She headed back to the stands.

"The baby?" asked Brittany. "You sent your baby in to fight?"

"He's in first grade. He took second at Nationals last year."

"How long have you two been together?"

"Twenty-six years," I said, "I've been with her longer than I've been without her."

She exchanged looks with Santana. I smiled. "You?" I said.

"Oh," she said, "We're not dating."

As they walked off together, pinkies linked, I overheard Santana saying, "Talk about Old School. Serious!"

"Serious," said Brittany, "But kinda old cool."


	2. Awkward

**Chapter 2: Awkward**

II.

The second time I fought Brittany, something was clearly off. She didn't even try head shots. I landed a punch to her sternum, and it knocked her off her feet. I was actually able to land a few points and dodge more. There was a moment in the fight when she practically stopped fighting.

"Fight!" Said the referee, signaling us to fight.

"Come on, Brittany, fight me!" I said. I attacked and scored. Something was clearly off, because I won.

We walked to the awards table. Again. And collected our awards, again.

"Hey," I said, "You okay?"

"Yeah . . . "

"Come on, the Old Chick knocked you over. Something's up. You haven't grinned once." I looked around.

"Where's your, uh, friend-you're-not-dating?"

She mumbled something.

"Sorry," cupping my ear, "too much glitter rock as a pre-teen. You have to speak up."

"She's . . . she's so over me."

"Tell."

"I couldn't leave my boyfriend when she wanted to be my girlfriend."

"It's 'complicated'?"

"Yeah."

Awkward silence. With me, that's not unusual.

"You . . . want her to be your girlfriend."

"Well, yeah!"

"But you don't want to break up with your boyfriend, and a trio is out of the question?"

"So out of the question. Oh my god. Wait?"

"You don't want to know, and please don't ask your parents. Maybe you need to figure out what you want most. You're good in the ring."

"Not today." We laughed.

"What I mean is, in the ring you have a clear goal and a short time-limit. You make decisions quickly and suffer the consequences just as quickly. And you can turn it around. Today wasn't so hot, maybe. But I bet usually you're really good at getting out of the way."

"Yeah."

"So figure out what your goal is, set yourself some parameters, and whatever you're putting in the way of your goal, get out of the way, right?"

"Set myself some paramours?"

"No, apparently you have two of those already. Parameters, limits, a framework. And then get out of the way."

"I know, right?"

"So?"

"So what about breaking Artie's heart?"

"Sounds like you've already set yourself a goal, and you've figured out what you're putting in the way of it." Not sure I should have been meddling, but I did.

"But it's not just me. She's scared to be open, and I can't stand to hide. Like anything."

"Ah."

Another awkward silence. Like I said.

"Sweetie, I hate to say this, but . . . have you shared any of this with your . . . parents?" Cringing.

"Yeah-no, kinda-not really."

"They've noticed you moping."

"Uh-huh."

"Huh," I said.

"I want you to hear something," I said, "Something really old school. This was old school before I was in school." I led her to my gear bag and got out my iPod. I handed her the earbuds and played a verse or two of Otis Redding's "I've Been Loving You Too Long." You can google it. I wrote the name down for her.

"Okay," I said, "Here's your choices: you dump him or you don't dump him, you date her secretly or you wait for her to be open. You choose what you're feeling now or . . . well, something different."

"I know, right?"

"Hey, look, my baby's in Ring Five. I gotta go watch him."

"Okay, thanks." She smiled. "For letting me fight you." Hey, she smiled.

"Thanks for letting me fight you. I hope it turns out okay." She hugged me. Awkward!


	3. Roller Rink

**Chapter 3: Roller Rink**

III.

Mid-winter break. And in our house, that means two wired boys with no structure. Must. Have. Motor. Discharge. We went to the roller rink. Guess who was there?

Check the two girls in the center of the rink, dancing on skates like they didn't have skates on at all. Wow. I noticed my girl staring, too. And a bunch of other people. Including my younger son.

I crashed into Brittany. I know. I was shocked. Generally, I'm vaguely competent on roller skates and hardly ever fall. No fancy stuff, like skating clockwise, though.

"Oh, hi!" She said. "Are you okay?"

We say that a lot. I think it has something to do with being girls who like impact.

"Yes I am. Are you?"

She helped me up.

"Hel-lo?" It was Santana. Impatient.

"Hey, Sweetie."

"Not your Sweetie."

"You are correct. She's skating over there. And my older son, he's playing the shooting game. And my younger one, he's causing near-crashes all over the rink." Pointing at each one.

"You call everybody Sweetie?" This was Brittany.

"Playground survival tactics. All the boys are Buddy, all the girls are Sweetie. Did not mean to offend, Santana."

"Santana, be nice. She's the one that gave me that song."

"Perv."

"Um, no. I am so far out of your league it makes my teeth hurt."

"What?" Brittany.

"What." Santana.

"I don't want to fight you, Santana. I don't fight outside the ring. Even when I want to."

"Mom!" My little man skated up. "I'm hungry!"

"Yeah? What would you eat?" He was staring at Brittany and Santana. He wasn't alone. "Buddy, what do you think you would eat? Buddy?"

"Huh?"

"Buddy, this is Santana and this is Brittany. I met them at the taekwondo tournament."

"Why did I not meet them at the taekwondo tournament?"

"You were in staging, then you were fighting."

"Pret-ty ladies."

"Dude! Manners!" I said.

"Sor-ry."

By now, Brittany and Santana were both biting their lips to keep from cracking up. "It's okay." They said.

"I gotta take care of this," I said.

"Mom!" My older son. "Mom!"

"Yes?"

"Can I have pizza? When are we going? Can we have ice cream after? Do you have more quarters?" Rapid-fire, as usual. "Wait, who are they? Which one of you wants to be my friend?"

"Get your bro a hot dog and you a pizza. Bring back the change," I said, stuffing a five in his hand.

"Hey, thanks. For the song," said Brittany in my ear.

I smiled. "You're welcome. Are you dating?"

"Not yet."


	4. On Fire

**Chapter 4: On Fire**

IV.

The third time I fought Brittany, I almost didn't. Santana accosted me outside the staging area.

"Hey, Perv. You need to stay away from my girl Brittany."

"Oh, hi, Santana. Brittany's here? What division is she fighting?"

"I said, you needs to take your old behind outs of here and stay away from my girl Brittany."

"Listen," I said, taking her forearm, "I am a peri-menopausal, married, nerdy jock. If you want to fight me, come to taekwondo classes at my school." Brittany walked up.

"San? What's up?"

"Santana took exception to my talking to you." With a crooked smile.

"Aw, Honey, be nice!"

"So?" I said.

She smiled. Huh.

"Are you fighting the ladies today?"

"Yep."

Now I smiled. "Something tells me you're going to have a great day."

Brittany got a Bye. I got a fight with - get this - a woman close to my age and size. It was awesome. I beat her. Which meant I got to fight Brittany again.

So she's a lot taller than me and more flexible. I avoided her first kick and closed in tight. I got in a couple punches, as I will, then things started happening fast. Mostly I just remember trying for a head shot. I know! I know, this is me. My leg doesn't even go that high. I lost my balance and found myself on the mat. "Oh," I thought to myself, "This is sooo comfy. . . Wait! I gotta finish this fight!" It must have taken a split second, because I was able to roll up to standing, push kick her enough to throw her off, then back kick her.

She doubled, then tripled, and I started to get tired. As I will. I made her miss one and kicked her in the back, only it was low, so I actually kicked her in the butt. Until taekwondo, I thought kicking ass was a good thing, but in the ring, it's a foul. At that point, I vaguely heard my coach yelling, "Get out of the way! Make her miss!" Good idea. If I could only move my feet. I was so beat, all I could do was stand and block, until the round was over.

"You got another round in you," said my coach. "Yes, Ma'am," I said. I drank water. I was dehydrated after one round. "She's tall. Stay in close. Don't give her the middle distance. Stay up. Play your game, not hers. Use your block punch! Keep it simple."

It was probably the longest minute and a half ever. I stayed up. I crowded her. I turned it around, but not quick enough. She won by two points. When we shook hands, she pulled me in for a hug. "On fire," she said.

"You are," said I.

"You played like you were thirty at most," she said.

"Now you're just trying to make me blush," I said.


	5. Invitation

**Chapter 5: Invitation**

V.

Wednesday morning, women's taekwondo class. While I was warming up, Santana strolled through the door. No. Way.

She spoke to Coach for a few minutes. Coach disappeared for a minute, then returned with a uniform, and Santana went off to change. Huh. She actually wanted to fight me.

"Hey, Santana, good to see you again!" I said. I repeated my name, just in case she forgot. "Are you cutting class?"

"Not that it's your business." Our classmates laughed.

"Welcome." I introduced her to the class. "Her girlfriend dropped me at the March tournament," I said. Her eyes got big for a moment. Ah. Not ready yet. Oop. "Friend. Who's a girl."

She was already really physically skilled, and she learned very quickly. I was impressed. Her main disadvantage was that she was about forty pounds lighter than I was, at around the same height. If I landed a kick or a punch like I meant it, she'd go flying. I knew Coach wouldn't let her spar with me without extra restrictions for quite awhile, anyway. I hoped she didn't need the classes she was cutting. This would be interesting.

I wasn't planning on going to any more tournaments for a while, so I could heal up from the last ones. Coach had me work with Santana for the first couple weeks, so that the students who were planning on competing could work together. I held paddles for her at first. She nailed the form on her first two kicks the first day. She had speed, but little power.

"I wish I had me some o' that!" I said, after a row of nice speed kicks. I grinned. Her face turned a little red, but she didn't say anything. "Your kicking form, Sweetie. Your kicking form."

Soon she had an excellent pivot, too. "Yow!" I called out when she gave the paddle a loud pop. "Nice!" If I let her fight me, I might get messed up. I was going to have to train harder. Definitely interesting. Even more so, Brittany didn't tag along.

"So, does Brittany know you're doing this?" I slid in one day.

"No."

"Huh." I said.

"You know, there's a teens class in the evenings, too."

"I read the website," she replied.

Huh.

We went down the floor again, doing another simple combination. This time she was holding paddles for me. Almost at the end of the row, I smashed my toes on the spine of the paddle. I sat down, swearing and holding my toes.

"Are you okay?" she said.

"Yeah-no. Kinda-maybe." This aging stuff is not for sissies. And I'm a much bigger sissy than I ever thought possible. "I'm going to sit out for a minute or two."

"Did you smash your toes again?" That was Coach.

"That would be me," I said.

Coach had Santana go kick the bag for a minute or two. "No more injuries!" She said to me.

"Yes, Ma'am!" I said, crinkling my eye.

I iced my foot for a few minutes and then went back for stretching at the end of class. As we gathered our equipment, I passed out envelopes to everyone.

"Easter Egg Party!" said Coach.

"Yup," I said. I handed an envelope to Santana. "Bring Brittany. We'd love it if you two could come. And you can bring other friends, too, if you like. Just a warning: it's a really kid-centric Easter egg decorating party. We have the messy parties so you don't have to. Don't dress up." I smiled. I could tell she was thinking about it.


	6. Hothead

**Chapter 6: Hothead**

VI.

The first time I fought Santana, I noticed the adrenaline sneaking up on me. She'd gotten so much faster in such a short time, and her power was increasing every class. I couldn't use the same strategy with her as I could with Brittany simply because of her height, but also because she's a hothead. I'm a little embarrassed by it, but I tried to make her miss by making her mad.

I threw a head shot and said "Can you check this for me? I think there's a spot on my foot." I almost tapped her chin. Almost.

"What?"

"Messing with ya." Spoken through a mouth guard, barely intelligible.

I push-kicked her, then closed and punched her in the chest twice, hard. Her face turned red. Huh.

Coach said to me, "Fight her like a good White Belt." Oop. That meant slow it down, nothing fancy. And ease up on the force.

"Yes Ma'am."

We don't generally keep score when we're sparring in class, but you know when you're beaten. It was maybe a tie.

Everybody sparred with everybody else, then the lower belts kicked the higher belts, and we practiced getting out of the way. It's a small class. Believe it or not, I'm one of the higher belts. By this time, I was getting pretty tired, as I do, and started standing and blocking, again, as I will. Santana's kicks were really stinging, so you'd think I'd follow instructions and get the heck out of the way, but once I'm tired, all bets are off. I blocked one with my hand. Ow.

"Ow!" I said, "Effing eck!" Blocking with my hands is a bad habit, a white belt habit, and I haven't been able to shake it.

"What did I say about injuries?" said Coach. "Double up on the padding."

"Yes Ma'am."

"Have you considered Tai Chi? Or Yoga?" said Santana. "Jus' sayin'."

"Thank you," I said, bowing, suppressing a grin. Tenet of the day must be Courtesy.

After class, on our way out, Santana asked me if she could bring someone other than Brittany to the Easter egg party.

"Yes, of course, but . . . she is invited, you know. Does she know? I mean, are you okay?"

"Sure."

"Huh. Do you want to get coffee? We can both play hooky." Meddle. Meddle, meddle, meddle. Gotta work on the Self-Control. Got plenty of the Perseverance.

She held up her hand. "Nuh. I gotta go."

"Well, can you give me her number? I want to make sure to invite her."

"Okay, but I don't think she'll want to be there if Dave and I are."

"She's a big girl. She can choose." She gave me the number. "See you next time?"


	7. Trampoline

**Chapter 7: Trampoline**

VII.

Party Day: We'd spent the week cleaning, blowing eggs, boiling eggs, filling eggs, hiding eggs, cleaning up the yard, and prepping food. We'd invited probably 50 kids and their families. And a few brave folks without kids. It was a beautiful day.

I try to circulate near the start of a party, because inevitably I'm policing the trampoline by halfway through. It's just that we have a finite number of ice bags, and the kids all want to be on it at once, and, well, you get the picture. The circulating is something I make myself do, something I had to learn like a foreign language, and it's way too easy to get Steps One through Three right and then drop out. Don't know what the hell that is. Just have to bring myself back. I was just bringing myself back when I overheard:

"Santana, you said this was a party. There's just little kids and old people here." Let me guess, this is Dave?

"Dave, it's the middle of the afternoon. Go dye Easter eggs or something. I'll see if there's any alcohol."

"Oh my God! They have Ukrainian egg dyeing! I love that stuff, my grandma always..."

"Karofsky! Shut up."

I put my welcome face on and welcomed them. Step One.

I pointed them to the food and drinks. Step Two. Then I dropped out. Dangit. Gotta work on that. Someone touched my elbow.

"Brittany! Welcome!" I ran through my spiel.

"I love your house," she said. "Who are in all these pictures?" she asked. Nobody'd asked me about them in a long time.

"Well, godkids, birthsiblings, birthparents, grandparents, cousins." Pointing at each group.

"You have a really big family."

"It blew us away how fast it grew once we did one open adoption. Then we did another one."

"Are you going to adopt more?"

"Nuh! Two's plenty."

I noticed her eyes flick up over my shoulder. I turned and saw Santana. Her brow was scrunched up. Brittany made an effort at an open smile. Dave was completely involved with his Ukrainian egg dyeing and missed the look between them. Not that he'd be likely to have noticed anyway; dude is a total homo.

"I'm confused by you two," I said.

"Yeah, me too."

"But things were really different when I was in high school. I gotta police the trampoline."

"You have a trampoline? Where?"

I led her through to the back door. Just as we were about to go through it, I heard a sudden cry. "Hang on," I said. I went back to the fridge to get an ice bag out of the freezer. "I'm late, I guess."

Sure enough, there were at least a dozen kids on the trampoline, ages four to fourteen probably, mostly boys. One of the smaller ones was crumpled up in the middle, wailing, and the others were surrounding him, some still jumping, some not. I had to use my "boss dog" voice. "Okay, everybody off the trampoline! Get in a line! Go two at a time for one minute!" I handed an ice bag to the injured party.

"Am I too old to jump?" said Brittany.

"Of course not, but you still have to wait in line," I said, smiling. "You're tall, though, maybe you should go by yourself." I started timing the rascals. When it was Brittany's turn, a pair of legs appeared next to where I was sitting on the deck. Santana's legs. Santana's eyes were on Brittany. Uh-huh.

"Dave's enjoying himself?" I said.

"Now that Ike's dad is advising him, yeah."

"Which one?"

She looked at me.

"I'm confused by you two," I said.

I gave the word that Brittany's turn was over. She exited the trampoline, saw us, and walked over. "Hi," she said.

"Hi," said Santana.

"Did you see their pictures? Of their whole family?"

"No?"

"You should." Brittany got back in line and started whispering with one of the little girls.

"Why should I?" Santana said to me, watching the kids jumping.

"She seemed impressed with how big our family is. We have a lot of godkids, birthsiblings, birthparents, cousins, grandparents and so on."

"Did he just do a full layout? That one's yours, right?"

"Yeah he did. He's always been unbelievably physically capable. Not so much academically or socially."

"That must be... difficult."

"For him, mostly."

Dave walked up with an exquisitely decorated egg. I was impressed. He has really chunky hands. "Santana, look!"

"Very nice, David. Why don't you go back and make it an even dozen?" Santana, semi-sweet.

Dave looked up in time to see that her eyes were on Brittany jumping on the trampoline. "Hey, uh, I gotta pick up some stuff for my dad. Do you think you could get a ride home?"

"Sure, Dave, see ya." Still looking at Brittany.

"Thanks," he said to me.

"I'm sorry you have to go so soon. Glad you could join us," I said. "Santana, could you time the kids for a minute or two? They go two at a time for one minute. Thanks." I handed her my iPod and escorted him out. We ran into my girl on the way. I introduced her as my partner. Sweat broke out on his face.

"Sorry, I gotta go," he said.

"You made a beautiful egg," said my girl.

"Thanks." He blushed, then made himself scarce.

"Santana's date," I said.

"I see."

I went back out. "Santana, you've been letting Brittany jump more than her share. Kids are really sensitive to adults not following the rules." I took my iPod back. Wait. I pulled the earphones from my watch fob pocket and plugged them in. Feeling a meddle coming on.

"Have a listen." I played some of the Neville Brothers' "Tell It Like It Is" for her.

"Are you trying to say something, cuz I have a boyfriend."

I gave her my crooked smile and rolled my eyes. "Don't be ashamed, let your conscience be your guide," I quoted from the song. Yeah, I get a little corny when I drink hard lemonade in the afternoon. Really. Just one.


	8. Moue

**Chapter 8: Moue**

VIII.

Could barely drag my sorry behind in to taekwondo class. And I'm the kind of person who would go to class on Thanksgiving, if it were available. Just... resistance everywhere. Crap. Tenet of the day is Indomitable Spirit. Working out hard usually helps. I warmed up in silence, which never happens. Nearly never.

"You haven't dropped even one of your pithy, self-deprecating, yet high-larious one-liners yet today."

I smiled a very thin smile at Santana and kept my mouth shut. Lifted my chin at her. One of those moments when talking leads to tears or word vomit, both of which I'd rather avoid at taekwondo. Tears anyway.

"What do you want to work on today?" asked Coach.

"Footwork," said one classmate.

"Power," said another.

I took a breath and blew it out. "Need endorphins, don't care how I get 'em."

"Okay, gear up and pair up. Choose one thing you want to work on in the ring, and we'll rotate through."

We geared up and paired up. Everyone declared her focus area.

"Getting out of the way," I said.

"Okay," said Coach, "No blocking; use your feet."

"Yes Ma'am." I worked really hard. We switched partners, and I worked really hard. Got out of the way some, but got kicked a few times, too. I'm always sporting bruises on my upper arms.

"Move your feet. No blocking," Coach repeated.

"Yes Ma'am." Some days the meat I live in will not cooperate. Sometimes the brain won't. I found myself out of breath and near tears. I put my hands on top of my head and took a turn out of the ring.

"Kick and cut. Around the bag," said Coach.

"Yes Ma'am."

Santana was my next partner. She was working on 2-kick combinations. She was consistent and persistent. It was all I could do to get out of the way of most of them.

"Good!" I said. "Nice!" I couldn't get out of the way, blocked and almost punched. Pulled it.

"No blocking!"

"Yes Ma'am!"

"You're getting pushups next time!"

"Yes Ma'am!"

"You like that submissive stuff, don't you?" Santana teased.

"Why, yes, ma'am," I drawled with a wink. Clearly the endorphins were starting to do their thing. She threw a double, which I avoided, but somehow I lost command of the center of the ring. Suckered again. She had me cornered. She doubled again. Both kicks touched, but not very hard.

"Hit me!" I yelled, laughing. She cracked up. "No, really. Hit me!" I cut through, sidestepping her next effort. I noticed she kept leading with her left.

"Woo-hoo!" I taunted, showing her an open side on her left, slid back, and cut to the side. She was about to back kick me, but I cut behind her. I popped up my front leg and tapped her back lightly.

"What was that?" she said.

"What was what?" said I.

"Come on, hit me!" she said.

"I'm not gonna hurt you."

"Hit me!"

"Gu-mon!" called Coach. It means stop what you're doing immediately. We stopped.

I made a moue at Santana. It's hard to tell when you have a mouthguard in your mouth. I took out my mouthguard.

Pointing. "That's a moue. I'm moueing," I said, "because I'm the Mad Cow." I lifted my eyebrows.

"You're ...?"

"A woman of a certain age. And sensible women of a certain age don't start learning impact sports like taekwondo, therefore Mad." I sucked my lips in to keep from laughing.

"Oh my god."

I bowed. "Thank you," I said, "for fighting me. Cuz the Cow needs to get her impact on." With neck action.

"I have never," she shook her head, "met anyone like you." She paused. "But my cheerleading coach might be close . . . "

After stretching, I was gathering my gear, and she asked if I wanted to get coffee.

Huh?

"Don't you have classes?" I asked.

"Spring break."

"My kids have next week off. Don't you have someone to hang out with?"

"Not really."

Huh.

"You realize if you ask me out to coffee, this is what you'll be having coffee with, right?"

She wrinkled her brow.

"You're not concerned with being seen with an obvious dyke?"

Characters who look like me on TV are either emphatically straight or bullies, in general. Sometimes comic relief. I spend time every day choosing when I'm going to protect people from their feelings about boyish girls, and when I'm not.

"Uh..."

"Tell you what, we'll go to the drive-thru." So we did.

"What's on your mind?" I asked.

"Why do you call yourself a d-?"

"Dyke? Cuz I am. Built like one, too. But even when I was skinny, I still was. Even when I wore my hair long and used makeup, I still was. Never did go for heels and skirts. There was that period in the 90's when I sometimes wore a dress with leggings and Doc Martens..."

"But it's a label. And derogatory."

"Coming from some people. Coming from me, no, I don't think so."

"I don't like labels."

"Cheerleader? HBIC?" Nothing. I tried again.

"I don't like all dykes, either, so we're even. Some annoy me, some scare me, some I have just nothing in common with." I smiled. "And then there's my girl. Biggest, luckiest, possibly messiest chance I ever took in my life. But I knew what I wanted. And I was lucky enough she wanted the same thing."

She stared into her coffee.

"But you know," I continued, "there are a lot of labels that kinda fit part of me, but for the last 10 years, Parent trumps Gay, Queer, Lesbian, Dyke, Cow, Nerd, Jock, Partner, Girlfriend,-"

"-I'm in love with Britt." Thank god she stopped the word vomit.

"And . . . ?"

"Everything sucks. I don't want to be a Lesbian or any of those other words. She won't be with me, or really even talk to me, until I-"

"She's in love with you." Softly.

"I'm not ready."

"For love?"

"For torture."

Had things really not changed at all since I was there?

"I hate to say this, but I'm going to anyway . . . Have you spoken with your parents about any of this?" Cringing again.

"No."

"Is there a problem there?"

"Yeah, no, maybe, I don't know."

Here's where the awkward silence comes in.

"Okay," I said, "You know your situation better than anyone else. You're the only one who can determine what's right for you. And if you want or need to, you can call us."

She looked at me for the first time since we got our coffee. Said nothing.

"Okay?"

She nodded.

"So you're Britt-o-philic, so what? Who isn't a little?" Little smile.

She rolled her eyes at me. "Nuh-uh. Mines."

"Yours." Smiling.

"Mines." She smiled, a little.

"Betta make sure she knows that. Can you take me back to my car? I gotta get to work before it's time to pick up the rascals."

"Yeah, but one thing."

"What?"

"What was up before class? Clearly there's trouble in paradise."

"Mornings can be a struggle. It was a rough morning."

"And . . . ?"

"My son, the younger one, is super sensitive, but he puts up a tough front. I worry that he'll end up alone. Other kids tease him because he's behind. He's stopped fighting in the hallways, but now he just brings it home to me. His Mama, not so much. Often the nastiness bleeds into the next day. Taekwondo gives me a place to put what he makes me feel sometimes."

We arrived at my car.

"See you at class Wednesday?"

"Yeah, see you then." I stuck out my pinkie and thumb and put my hand up to my ear. For real. "If you need or want to."

She rolled her eyes, then: "Um, thanks."

I got in my car, and she pulled hers out of the parking lot.

Text to Brittany: _You might want to re-evaluate your parameters._Yeah, I spell everything out like that. It's how you know I could be your mother.

I hoped she knew what I meant.


	9. Meetup

**Chapter 9: Meetup**

IX.

Did you miss Brittany yet? Yeah, me too. So it was a pleasant surprise when I got a text back later that afternoon: _Meet?_

Back at her: _At tkd with kids, across from mckinley._ Never did get how you make capitals in the middle of a sentence. It's a DumbPhone. _Want to meet here?_

_K thx 10?_

_Sure_. Huh.

Kids' taekwondo classes at our school are really loud, but I like watching them because I can usually learn something. The kids are rarely daunted by self-doubt. The coach tells them what to do, and they do it. Or they do the best they can. Even my older son, who is just not all that athletic so far. It's tough being Awesome's brother. I was planning to sit through the little kids' class and the bigger kids' class, then attend the weekly forms class afterward, hopefully with both kids, if Mr. Awesome wasn't throwing an awe-inspiring tantrum. I know. It's exhausting.

When Brittany arrived, the younger kids' class was about to wrap up. The coach was giving a talk about respecting family, especially parents. My son was looking at the ceiling. When Coach called him on it, he got a nasty look in his eye. Oh yay. Might not get a chance to talk.

"Hey," she said.

"Hey, how have you been?" said I.

"Good, thanks. I mean. Not."

My son was approaching with tears in his eyes. "Hang on," I said to Brittany. "Buddy, you look like you're having some really strong feelings. What's up?"

"Coach was mean to me."

"You're sad and angry because Coach told you that you couldn't do something."

He nodded. "What happened, Sweetheart?"

"He wasn't paying attention," said his brother.

"We're talking right now, please go line up for your class."

"But he wasn't listening to Coach saying to respect your parents."

"Line up!" said Coach.

"Go line up," I said. He didn't go. "Respect your parent. Go line up."

"Line up!" said the senior student. He went. Counting to ten, now.

"Maybe we should talk another-?"

"Hang on, just a minute. I'd love to talk with you."

"Bud, Sweetheart, listen. You're feeling ashamed. It's really reasonable that you would feel ashamed when Coach tells you you're doing something wrong, right? But at the same time, Coach is your coach and an adult and he really cares about you. He just wants you to do the right thing." I rubbed his chest. "It's really okay to feel how you're feeling right now, but if you want to avoid it in the future, you need to be able to pay attention to your coach."

"I wanna quit."

Oh boy, not again. He has . . . issues. We're working on it. Shame triggers bad things. Tantrums. Violence. I kinda have PTSD about it. Got hit in the face with too many baby bottles and trucks, thrown at Major League speeds. Counting to ten, again.

"We'll talk about it at home, with Mama. Take a deep breath and reset yourself," I said. I took a deep breath and tried to reset myself. Adrenaline.

He tried to decide whether to throw a tantrum or reset. I closed my mouth and waited.

"Honey," Brittany said to him, "you look like you need a break." She held one hand out to him. I held my breath. Likelihood of his spitting on her and calling her a nasty name was high. Then _I _would get a ride on the Shame Train.

Then, a miracle: one tear overflowed from his eye, and he wiped it away. He reached out his hand to Brittany and took hers. Then he climbed into her lap. What? She just folded him up, and he let out a big sigh.

Huh. I breathed. I swear the girl is magic. I felt myself tearing up. Breathe. Reset.

She sat with him quietly for another minute or two. Then he slid off her lap and went to find one of his friends. Full recovery. I was completely stunned.

"Wow. I want some of that."

She looked at me confused. Awkward silence.

"I mean. Not that. I want to be able to do that with him. What I mean is, I admire your skill with my- I appreciate your ability to . . . to understand . . . my son. That's what I was trying to say." Yeesh. The blush again.

She laughed. "I didn't know your school was right here."

"We moved here last summer."

"I like it. It's home-y."

"Yeah, it's a great community. The women's classes are fantastic."

"When are they?" I told her.

"Maybe I'll try it sometime." Oop. Did it again. I'm guessing there's a reason Santana hadn't told her about training here.

"That would be cool." Was I nonchalant enough? Like, Santana scares me a little, but Brittany just . . . flusters? confuses? me. "You were saying? Things are fine, not?"

She explained how she broke up with Artie and expected to be able to get together with Santana, but Santana wouldn't come out and started dating Dave to win Prom Queen.

I had forgotten how exciting high school was. Right. I was a nerd in high school and enough of a girl jock to need to date. Nerdy, but not too nerdy boys. Captain of the debate team and wrestler, nice looking. Things got a little crazy when he started dating the debate coach's wife. Before breaking up with me . . . Ugh. I think I'm gonna barf. Where was I?

Right. Brittany.

"She just really needs to find her own time. Everybody is different. She may not have the same timetable you do. She's scared. I know she seems like she's not scared of anything, but-"

"She talked to you?" Gears turning behind Brittany's eyes.

Ugh. I think I'm gonna barf. I did it again!

"How did you get my number, for the party, anyway?" Click, click, click.

I'm gonna close my mouth now. Really.

Or not.

"Yeah. I'm not good at keeping secrets. And she didn't actually ask me to keep it a secret, but she's been training with the women's class here for months." Oh, boy.

"Really?" she said. She shifted her eyes a little, trying to figure this out. "Why?"

"At first I thought she wanted to fight me, but now I don't think so. Not sure. She really seems frightened of what might happen if she comes out. Is her home situation okay?"

"I guess."

She looked faraway for a moment or two.

"She said you two weren't speaking."

"It's been a mess since Dave. It's like I can't look at them without feeling like a sad panda. Or wanting to throw something. And that's so not me."

"You know he's gay, right?"

"How do you know? Did he tell you?"

"No, it's a hypothesis based on the five minutes I spent with him at the party."

"You gave him an injection?"

"I made an educated guess."

Awkward pause time.

"I sent you that text because I got the impression you'd decided you couldn't be with her unless she was completely open, and then I thought maybe that was too strict. Maybe the two of you need to feel your way through, yourselves."

She averted her eyes, blushing. It's like I'm talking over a ten-foot fence, across this generation gap. Gah.

"I mean, without someone like me butting in, any more than I already have. I apologize."

"No, it's okay."

"Anyway, she seemed like she needed a friend. I mean, she asked _me_ to have coffee with her."

My son sidled up to me, looking at Brittany. "Sorry, Mom," he whispered.

"Me too, Babe." I snaked one hand around his waist, and with the other, shook his hand. He continued to stare at Brittany.

"Can Tall Girl come live with us?"

"Her name is Brittany, Bud. And she has her own place to live." He pushed away from me, then stepped over and pressed into Brittany's leg. He's always communicated better non-verbally. So far.

She put her arm around him. "Hey," she said.

He turned, looked her in the eye, and in his best 7-year-old gangsta, lifted his chin at her and said, "'Sup."

I made eye-contact with Brittany over his head and rolled my eyes. She pulled her lips into her mouth.

I noticed Coach starting to wrap up class. "I gotta change. I'm doing Forms class next."

"Okay. I should go, I guess." She sweetly detached herself from my kid, and gathered her stuff. I got my uniform and headed toward the change room. As I crossed the threshold of the gym going out, Santana crossed coming in. In uniform.

"Hey!" I said. Oop.

"Hey," said she. Brittany was right behind me.

Their eyes met.

a/n: Tip of the nib to a book called Two Strand River, by Canadian author Keith Maillard.


	10. My Team

**Chapter 10: My Team**

X.

It would have been really awkward if I'd stayed. Who am I kidding? It was just awkward. Santana's eyes narrowed at me, and her cheeks pinked. Brittany helped me out.

"Why didn't you tell me? I wondered why I could never find you when I ditched second period."

"You looked for me? Wait." To me: "You talked to her? I knew I shouldn't have given you her number."

"You're right. I should never have interfered. And I'm sorry. I gotta change into my uniform." I slid by and changed. When I returned, I expected them both to be gone, but they were still standing by the door to the gym.

" . . . pretending to date? This is confusing, but you still look hot in your uniform."

"Come on, nobody looks hot in a dobok." They spotted me. Well. It wasn't like I was hiding. And I did have to go through the doors they were standing by. I eyed them, then, crinkled up my eyes. Nodded at the two of them. "Okay, maybe I didn't think that statement through."

"Or much."

"I apologize, Santana, you are correct. But I distinctly remember you never told me not to tell Brittany you were training here. And . . . I didn't know you were going to do forms class. Usually it's just me and 3 or 4 boys with ADHD."

"Coach said I'm going to get promoted at the next belt test."

"'Bout time," I said, smiling.

"I can't believe you two have been working out together."

"Yeah, Santana's playing on my team now, Brittany, what are you going to do about it?" I wiggled my eyebrows.

"You did not look up her archives." Santana.

"I did. I so did. You know, what goes on the internet stays on the internet. Your cat seriously needs to lay off the cheese."

They exchanged glances.

Brittany said, "He can have cheese, he's on Catkins."

"Line up!" said the forms coach. That's my cue.

"You coming?" I asked Santana. She looked between us. Brittany smiled and nodded.

"Yeah, okay."

The forms coach bowed us in. Then he pointed to me and declared, "This is my star student." Noooooooooo! I grew up a nerd, tormented because of being studious. Respectfully, Sir, shut the hell up. Sometimes cultural differences are difficult to bridge.

He gestured to Santana, the only white belt at class that night. "You will work with her. First two forms."

"Yes, Sir!" said Santana.

"Yes, Sir!" said I.

Forms are just really simplified one-sided fights. Santana learns much more difficult cheerleading routines all the time. She pretty much mastered the first two forms within minutes. The coach sent the boys for a water break and I had Santana show off for him.

"Good," he said, "Very good! Continue with Form Three."

"Yes, sir!" we said.

"At this rate, you'll jump above me at the next promotion," I said.

"Yeah, right," she said.

"Really, you're good. You should compete."

She laughed in my face. I showed her Form Three.

Brittany had waited through class for her. She had a big smile on her face. "You're really good! You should compete!" she said.

"See?" said I.

"I saw the forms competition once. I'm not really interested," said Santana.

"Spar," I said. "I bet you'd have a blast."

"Yes, San, say you will! It would be so fun!"

"I'll . . . think about it."

"Would you think about something else?"

"Maybe . . . "

Brittany whispered something in her ear. Santana blushed. So did I, for that matter, and I was only guessing what she was saying. She started nodding, small at first, then bigger. They looked into each other's eyes.

They continued looking into each other's eyes.

"Umm, I think Coach needs to lock up," I said. Then I asked my boys to get their stuff and meet me at the door.

"Bye," said Brittany, staring into Santana's eyes.

"See ya," said Santana, staring into Brittany's eyes.

They linked pinkies and left together.

"Bye, Ladies," I called. Then I had to coerce my children into leaving. Then I had to cajole my children into leaving. Then I had to plead with my children to leave. Then I had to bribe them. Wait. So much easier if: "Dudes, let's walk the ladies out, shall we?"

"Goodnight Coach! Goodnight Brittany! Goodnight Santana!" called my older son.

"Goodnight Pretty Ladies!" called my younger son. Giggling ensued.


	11. Sparring

**Chapter 11: Sparring**

XI.

I was nearly finished warming up the next morning when Santana strolled in.

"I was hoping you'd get here," I called out, "Cuz I wants to get my impact on."

"You are not from Lima Heights Adjacent," said Santana.

"I didn't grow up there, but I've lived there fuh-evuh. We were the second white couple on the block. Now we're the only family of color left."

Brittany poked her head from behind her. Huh. It was sparring day.

"Hey!" I said.

Brittany talked with Coach for a few minutes, then started warming up. She'd been promoted recently. No big. I fight people who outrank me all the time. Not well, but I do fight them. Bravery, bordering on foolishness, is my trademark.

It was one of those days. The kind when I just cannot seem to take direction or change my actions. The kind when I just can't get myself out of the way. The kind that just suck. Two of the white belts bested me over and over in ring drills. I couldn't touch them. One of them was Santana. Fast, nimble, really flexible. Then Brittany popped me with a speed axe kick, right in the ear. I walked right into it. Well. Better than in the nose, right? The helmet doesn't cover that. I was praying we'd just get to do some regular sparring.

The thing about ranking is that it really varies widely from school to school. Sometimes students who come to our school with red or black belts don't actually fight as well as our blue belts. Sometimes they don't fight as well as our high yellow belts. So we watch and see how they fight.

"You remember Brittany, don't you? Totally clocked me?" I didn't want anyone to underestimate her. We lined up to spar. Coach paired us up and gave us one-minute rounds.

Brittany was my first opponent. We bowed, then she fist-bumped me, grinning. I lifted my chin and faked a smile. "Go!" said Coach. First thing, I got the heck out of the way. Coach laughed. Then I started trying to find my way in. She wasn't buying any of my fakes. She attacked, and I moved in. I tried to pop her with an inside kick, but just couldn't get my knee up high enough. She countered with a double, and I cut in and got her - in the arm. No points for me. She went for my head and I blocked with my forearm, then tried a back kick. No dice. Sweat was pouring down my face. I faked again, then attacked with a spinning kick. She slid just out of the way. I almost wished she'd taken me out right away. It was the most frustrating kind of fight. Just no impact. None.

"Gu-mon!" said Coach. We bowed. "Brittany, stay in. Santana!"

"Yes, Ma'am!"

Santana grinned at Brittany and fastened her helmet on. She put her mouthguard in and stepped into the ring. They bowed. "Go!"

_I sink into the daydream. I know it's an escape. I know it won't last. Fighting takes the edge off. Estrogen takes the edge off. It makes me weepy, but it takes the crazy edge off. The daydream takes the edge off a little more. Fact is, it's nearly my birthday, and I'm not getting younger. The other students in the class are learning fast, and I'm not going anywhere recently. Fact is, learning to get out of the way is important on so many levels, but I actually like impact. Maybe I really just want to kick and get kicked._

_I mean, really. What if? What if someone like me could actually have a couple of young friends? Is that creepy? Wait, what if a kid like Santana could have an older out queer to talk to? Well? The daydream is dissolving. I need to concentrate._

Santana had already learned not to run in. It's something I'm still working on. Brittany hadn't really figured out how to fight Santana. It was like . . . Huh.

It was like they were dancing around each other, trying to work their way in, but being scared to engage fully.

"Fight!" said Coach.

Brittany made a tentative move. Santana shied away from it, then threw a fast kick and pulled it at the last moment. Brittany bought it as a fake, but Santana missed the opening. Santana closed. Brittany countered with a push kick and landed it. Santana flew across the ring, but stayed standing. Brittany suddenly stepped in closer, and Santana threw and landed a back kick. Nice! Santana closed and threw a solid punch, then followed up with a tight kick to Brittany's ear. She wasn't supposed to use head shots yet, but clearly she'd figured it out. Brittany countered, and Santana blocked it, following up with another solid kick to the ear. She closed, punching, her face red by now. Then she just leaned in on Brittany, her hands down. Brittany broke the contact and just put a lot of distance between them. Santana tried to close back in, but Brittany's footwork was too quick. She kept her distance.

Brittany had barely engaged her at all.

"Gu-mon!" said Coach. They stopped and bowed.

"I hate! Fighting! You! Fight me!" Santana panted.

"I hate fighting you," said Brittany simply.

"I'd fight you," I said limply. But it was someone else's turn.

After stretching, we were gathering our gear.

"Ladies," I said to the two of them, "Can I ask you something?"

They looked at me.

"Saturday's my birthday, and I really want a date."

Raised eyebrows. Crap. Did it again.

"With my sweetheart!" I said, flustered. I hate that. "Would you two be willing to babysit our boys?"


	12. Just Wow

**Chapter 12: Just Wow**

XII.

They had agreed.

They had agreed. Do you have any idea how long-? Parents of challenging kids don't get a lot of dates, especially when the grandparents are out of the picture.

I had made a completely compulsive list of everything they needed to do and approximately when. I had ordered pizza to be delivered and paid for it online. I had cleaned up a little, which means getting the forty thousand brightly colored plastic objects off the floor at least. I had even dressed up a little. I sat on the comfy chair waiting for my girl to be ready, waiting for them to show. I had tried to prep the kids: "Remember Santana and Brittany? They are going to hang with you guys tonight. Be nice, okay?"

"Tall girl is coming to live with us?" My youngest never gives up, where girls are concerned.

"No, Babe, she and Santana are coming over to hang with you guys while Mommy and Mama have a date."

"Nooooooo!" said my oldest. He can't bear for the two of us to do anything without him.

"You'll love it, Buddy. Santana's really smart, and Brittany thinks outside the box, just like you."

A knock at the door. Hallelujah, thank you Jesus.

"Honey, they're here!"

"Be there in a minute!"

I answered the door.

"Hey!"

"Hey! Uh, are you okay?" asked Brittany.

"Yeah? Why?"

"You look a little pale. Or something."

"Happy Birthday!" said Santana.

"Thank you." I handed them the list I made. "Sorry, I'm a little twitchy, but this pretty much says everything. Our numbers are at the bottom. Meds at 7:30, pajamas at 8:00, bed at 8:30, Big Man in his room, Little Man in ours. Read them all the way to sleep, please. I know I've forgotten something important."

"Relax. We'll be fine," said Santana.

"That's not really in my nature. Um, you're teenagers, so I just have to state: No alcohol, No drugs, No TV-14 or more mature, except Glee and Modern Family, they always watch those, No friends over, what else?"

"Really, we'll be fine," said Brittany.

My girl came down the stairs. She'd dressed up a little, too. More than a little. Wow. Just wow. She took my hand and greeted the girls.

"(oh god) You. Look. Amazing," I said to her. She smiled at me. I touched her face.

"Get a room," said Santana.

"Really, get a room," said Brittany, "We cleared it with our folks."

What the hell?

"Really?" I looked at my girl. She lifted her eyebrows. We looked at Santana and Brittany.

"Really." Santana was nodding.

We looked at the boys. "Dudes," I said, "What if Santana and Brittany stay with you all night?"

"Here?"

I nodded. "Yeah, Man."

"All right!" they said, bumping fists. Uh-oh. Time to vacate.

"I just want to remind you two," I said softly, "that there is absolutely NO Privacy in this house."

"Got it," said Santana.

"Yeah, okay," said Brittany, smiling.

"Best. Birthday present. Ever."

Yeah we got a room.

We brought giant lattes and scones in the morning, hoping the fact that neither of our phones had rung all night was a good sign. It was still really early – we get up at stupid o'clock every day. Very quietly, we unlocked and opened the door. There was mild chaos in the downstairs, but it was silent.

We crept through the house. The kitchen had been nicely cleaned up. We went upstairs. Nobody in Little Man's room.

"We should have told them to take his room." I whispered. We shrugged.

Nobody in Big Man's room.

Huh?

Carefully, we opened the door to our room. Too sweet. All four of them had somehow fit on the bed, Santana and Brittany in the middle, Brittany's arm around Santana, and each of them had an arm around one of the boys. They were all still asleep. We went downstairs to have some coffee.

A couple of cups later, Brittany made her way downstairs, rubbing her eyes.

"Hey," I said, "Good morning."

"Hey," said Brittany.

"We got you a giant latte and a scone, but I think it's probably cold by now, sorry. How'd it go?"

"Let me heat it up first." She did. She sat down on the big couch, opposite the two of us on the little one. "It was really fun, actually. We watched a little TV while we had some pizza, then the boys put on a show for us with musical numbers and dancing. I think they were singing "Single Ladies" but I'm not sure. The little one's not always clear."

"Yah, you should hear his rendition of "No One" - it sounds like ya-ya-ya-ya-ya . . . No One, No One, No Wu-uh-uh-un ya-ya-ya-ya-ya . . . "

"Annnnnd . . . "

"Yes?" I said.

"While we were doing dishes, Santana agreed to go on a date with me. Annnnnd . . . I agreed to let her decide when to be open."

"Wow. That's huge. For both of you."

"Yeah, I know I'm irresistible, and she would have caved eventually, but she'd have done too much damage before that. She's gonna have to learn to use her powers for good."

"I'm always telling the boys that."

"That Santana has to learn to use her powers for good?"

"I'm gonna let that one go."

"I figure when we've been together 26 years, we'll be a lot younger than you guys."

"Thanks. Thanks for that," I said, grinning.

"I mean, no offense, do the math, right?"

"Right."

Light footfalls on the stairs told me Santana was coming downstairs. The boys always sound like a herd of . . . something. Something different every morning, actually.

"Good morning," I said.

"Morning," said Santana.

"Let me go heat up your coffee, Honey," said Brittany.

"Do. Please," said Santana, "Babe."

She caught my eye. I looked at my girl. I was surprised she hadn't said much of anything, but then again, we spend much of our morning time in companionable silence.

She looked to the kitchen where Brittany had gone, then said, "We've decided we're dating."

"Congratulations," said my girl, "If you ever need some support, please call us. Any time."

"Thanks."

"No, thank you," I said, "It was so nice to get some."

Santana and my girl both rolled their eyes. Oh hell.

"Privacy! Privacy! Pri. Va. Cy!" I said, getting my full blush on.

They were both giggling as Brittany got back into the room.

"What did I miss?"

"Somebody got some," said Santana.

"Privacy!" said I.

"Wasn't that the whole point?" said Brittany.


	13. Mothers' Day

**Chapter 13: Mothers' Day**

XIII.

Nothing happening here. It's just a coda, punctuation. A thank-you note. The daydream has come unstuck in time, let's say it's Mothers' Day, we're in an upscale mall in another city, and it's, oh, ten years down the line. Maybe they're performing in town for the weekend.

Our sons have taken us to a movie, and for old times' sake, for a burger afterwards in a cheesy national chain burger joint set roughly in the 1950's. This used to be one of four places we could take them to without worrying about their behavior.

I look up and notice her, thinking: No. Way.

In all the joints in all the towns in all the world. They're here. With a couple rugrats about 3 and 5, maybe. Gorgeous, of course, the kids I mean, the older one, a girl, matches the both of them, and the younger one, a boy, doesn't. Santana plays tic-tac-toe with the girl, and Brittany plays rock paper scissors with the boy. Occasionally they glance at each other, holding the gaze for an extra beat, and there's the smile, same as the first one that clued me in about them.

My girl catches me staring and turns around. She grins a little, and our younger son follows my gaze. "Aunty Brittana!" he says, waving. He's never forgotten how much nicer Mommy and Mama were after nights Aunty Brittana stayed over. He mentions it to his girlfriends, for heaven's sake, when he points out their picture on the wall next to the cousins, birthsiblings, godbros, and grandparents.

She looks over, takes a moment, recognizes us, then alerts Brittany. Brittany looks over, smiles, then gets up and comes over, their little boy in tow. It's been awhile since we saw them last, but this time when she hugs me, there's no awkward there. Santana and their girl come over, too, and she hugs my girl first, then me. They introduce their kids, and I re-introduce ours.

"Dudes, you're so hot!" says Brittany. Thanks. Thanks for that. We exchange a few pleasantries, then their food arrives and they go back to their table. Our food arrives, and our kids dig in.

I glance around the room, as I will. In the small booth in the corner sit two teenage girls, tipping their foreheads toward each other and giggling. One takes the other's cheek in her hand, and they gaze into each other's eyes.

I catch Santana's eye and nod over to them. She catches Brittany's eye and nods over to them. My girl catches on and gives me a "Stop it!" look. The teenagers look up and catch us all. They look at each other and kiss, grinning.

"Thank you," I mouth to Santana and Brittany. "For fighting me." They smile.

Thank you very much.


End file.
